Forget About It Page 6

  “No, I didn’t know that,” I said. “Sounds like fun.”

  “Well, I thought you could watch Sneevil Knievel for me . . .” Sneevil Knievel was her canary. If she thought I was going to watch him, she had another think coming.

  “I think that would be a very nice big-sisterly thing to do, J.,” my mom said. “Oh, these shoes are to die! Are they to die or what?” she asked Sam.

  “They’re hot,” Sam said, and then looked pleadingly at me. “It’s only for a week.”

  “I’ll drive you back into the city with the birdcage,” Mom offered.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Awesome,” Sam yelped. “I totally won’t forget this.”

  * * * * *

  Finally we got back to the city. The bad thing about shopping with my mom and Samantha . . . was shopping with my mom and Samantha. But the good thing was that I got the ride back into the city, which I hadn’t planned on.

  When I got back to my apartment building, birdcage in hand, my next-door neighbor had a giant box outside his apartment that I had to step over. This was a weekly occurrence. The guy worked in shipping at his company, and over-ordered toner and ink-jet cartridges, which he then sold on eBay for a hefty profit as a side business. I stood there, thinking about all the little secrets that you come to know about your neighbors and wondered why he was so cavalier about his stealing. What if I was a police officer? Or the daughter of his boss? The building super was guilty of it, too. He was a pot dealer for everyone in the building and probably beyond. I’d never seen inside his apartment, but from all the business he did I imagined it to be a full-on greenhouse. That coupled with the fact that when I moved in, he told me under no circumstances should I let any representative of the city including firemen, police, or any inspector of any kind into the building made him slightly suspect as a law-abiding citizen in my book.

  Sneevil Knievel started to chirp, so I had to quit musing on my fate as keeper of every neighbor’s dark secrets and quickly get us both inside. For once I had no debtor messages on my answering machine, so I turned on the TV and surfed around until I landed on an old favorite. Regarding Henry was on television. I changed into my pajamas and settled in to watch it. I wrote in my journal a little bit, further pondering the film, wondering what it would be like to forget everything and everyone, and soon after fell asleep.

  7.

  say no to v.d.

  The bonds that people form with their college friends strike me as similar to those they have with their camp friends—profound, enduring, and strengthened by inside jokes, shared histories, and secret handshakes. I never went to sleep-away camp and always felt I missed out on the kinship that goes along with it. This set off a sort of social-misfit chain reaction for me—when I went off to college, I opted out of the whole sorority scene, pretty much also consigning my college friends fate to the fairgrounds of few and far between. Maybe all those happy campers understood that, by throwing themselves into some type of forced social activity, they’d be able to garner those everlasting bonds that set you up with lifelong friends with whom you can get together annually and rehash the glory days. I just didn’t get it.

  It wasn’t that I swore by the Groucho Marx maxim of not wanting to belong to any club that would have me as a member. I simply never found a specific club that I could bring myself to be that passionate about. I was having enough trouble finding one person to be passionate about, let alone a whole club.

  The night before Valentine’s Day, sophomore year, I got dragged by my roommate to a frat party on the third floor of a building that housed five fraternities—one on each floor. The party was overcrowded and uncomfortably moist, so fifteen minutes in, I made my move—for the stairs, in hopes of beating a hasty retreat to the exit. One flight down, a door flew open and there stood a really cute guy I’d noticed a week earlier in line at the salad bar in the cafeteria. I recognized his aqua-blue eyes and remembered that they perfectly matched the stripes on his Adidas sneakers. I also remembered that he had stayed away from the carrots but gone crazy for the garbanzo beans.

  This is going back a few years, so some of it’s a little foggy, but I remember enough to know his conversation was so charming that I took a detour onto the second floor and into one of the bedrooms—it seemed like a college thing to do.

  Mr. Charm and I made out on a borrowed bed for about an hour. There was no extreme touching, just your garden-variety smooch-fest. When we broke for some air, I remember him looking at me quizzically as he lit an American Spirit cigarette and inhaled the smoke through his nose.

  “I’ve decided that I’m not going to pledge this fraternity,” he said, looking somewhat wistfully out the window. “And I think I might be gay.”

  The clock said 12:01 A.M. It was officially Valentine’s Day. Happy . . . Fucking . . . Valentine’s Day. I’m sure I wondered why he’d bothered making out with me, and hoped I wasn’t the final test to decide if he was going to switch teams, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask him much less even speak. I just put my coat back on and returned to the stairwell, this time making it all the way out of the building, never to return.

  And so, the next morning, still Valentine’s Day, when I met Cat at a coffee shop between each of our campuses—my chin totally stubble-burned from the pathetic events of the night before—and saw her wearing an anti–Valentine’s Day T-shirt that said, SAY NO TO V.D., I knew I already had the only friend I needed. Cat was attending Columbia, majoring in psychology with a double minor in irresistible smirks and disjointed hilarity.

  I remembered that morning’s gossip fest vividly as I walked toward Cat’s apartment—now seven years later. We were having lunch with Todd at Jerry’s on Prince Street, but I was picking her up at her place so I could see the renovations she and Billy had done. I got there about twenty minutes early and decided to wait outside, but then saw Cat through her office window, motioning me in.

  When I opened the door and saw a woman in tears glaring at me, I was sure I’d misunderstood Cat and she had actually been waving me away. I started to back off, but Cat took my arm.

  “Come in,” she said. “This is Ruth.”

  “Hi, Ruth,” I said to the glowering woman, and I gave Cat a quick hug.

  “Hello,” Ruth said in a stilted manner.

  Cat shifted her feet back and forth for a second, and then gave me a big smile. “How would you feel about helping me for just a second?” she asked in the cheery voice that I recognized as her cover for complete exasperation.

  “Me?” I said. “How do you mean?”

  “Ruth and I are doing a psychodrama, and for some reason, her familiarity with me isn’t allowing her to believe me as her mother. Could you just be Ruth’s mother? It will only take a few minutes.”

  “Sure.” I shrugged. “I guess . . . ?”

  “Great,” Cat said. When Ruth went for water, she leaned close to whisper, “Whatever happens, just listen and say you’re sorry. I’ll do the rest.” Then with Ruth returning she spoke up. “You just stand here, and Ruth, now you tell your mother what you’re feeling.”

  “Okay,” she said, “You’re . . . here. As my mother . . .” And I stood there and waited. Ruth looked at me and her chin started quivering. She looked like she was about to say something, and then she stopped herself. Then the tears started pouring out.

  “Where were you?” she said.

  We stood there, me looking at her, she at me, and I didn’t know if I was supposed to answer her or not. I looked at Cat, and then Ruth stamped her foot.

  “Look at me! I asked you a question. Where were you?” she screamed.

  “I—I don’t know,” I said hesitantly. “But I’m sorry I wasn’t . . . wherever I was supposed to be?”

  “Soccer practice. You forgot to pick me up. Coach Bidwall had to take me home with him until he could locate you. More than once. Do you know what it’s like to be waiting to get picked up and watch everybody else’s parents come to get their kids and have nobody come f
or you?” She stuck her chin out at me. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to answer again. “Do you!?” she wailed and tugged at her hair, snot running from her nose to her upper lip.

  I just wanted to have lunch with my friend. Suddenly I’m getting blamed for forgetting to pick someone up at soccer practice twenty years ago. I’d like to say I knew just how to handle the situation, but that would pretty much be a lie. My typical stance is on the sidelines, passive, letting it happen, rather than making it happen. I was tempted to play this one true to typical Jordan. But right then, I wasn’t me. I was Ruth’s derelict mom. Not heeding Cat’s instruction, I spoke.

  “Ruth,” I said, not knowing exactly where the moment would lead; then Dirk’s favorite standby occurred to me. “Could we start to forgive and forget?” I asked with a half smile, hoping to help defuse the little scene.

  “I don’t forgive you,” she hissed. “Every insecurity I have to this day is because of you. And for the record, I always hated tofu and cod liver oil on a bagel. Why couldn’t I have just cream cheese like every other kid?” She stared wild-eyed at me. I was the avatar of Ruth’s derelict mother, which filled me with a certain odd pride and a sense of responsibility. Forgetting a soccer practice was one thing—but plain tofu and cod liver oil on a bagel? That’s culinary torture. So I took my turn again, and I took her hand.

  “Ruth, I can only say I’m sorry for everything that hurt you,” I told her. “I always did the best I could with what God gave me. Now it’s up to you.”

  Cat stared at me, her own eyes wild, more surprised than Ruth, who was now quiet. “Thank you,” Ruth said, now less feral, with shoulders in a gentle arc. “Maybe we could get together sometime for bagels and cream cheese.”

  Not knowing to whom this was directed—me or Mother Ruth—I looked at Cat, whose jaw moved side to side signaling something nebulous.

  “I prefer peanut butter on mine,” I said uncertainly, which set Cat’s jaw into higher gear, “but, yes, absolutely, yes.” That broke the spell, so to speak. Ruth smiled and nodded.

  Cat cleared her throat and announced, “Wow, we’ve made great progress today, Ruth. Our session is up.”

  “I think this was a real breakthrough,” Ruth breathed, touching my shoulder. “Yes.”

  Outside afterward, Cat wouldn’t look at me for a while. “I think what you did would really bother me, if I weren’t so . . . stunned by how different you seemed.” She looked up and met my gaze with a forgiving smile. “Maybe you both learned something.”

  “Definitely,” I said. “No kid of mine is ever going to soccer practice without a cell phone.” She rolled her eyes, and it was off to Jerry’s, hold the tofu and cod liver oil.

  * * * * *

  When we settled into our booth, Cat reached into her coat and pulled out a small piece of paper. “I have something to show you,” she said, and then turned the paper faceup and pushed it in front of me. It was a sonogram printout. I thought. I’d only really seen them in the movies.

  “You’re pregnant?” I beamed, and she nodded an enthusiastic yes. I looked at the picture and didn’t want to insult her, but I wasn’t sure exactly where the baby was in it.

  “It’s right there,” she said, sensing my confusion. “That little thing.”

  “Aww,” I said and gave her a hug across the table, careful not to squish her stomach. “That is so amazing, Cat. Congratulations! Were you guys trying?”

  “Well, we weren’t not trying,” she said.

  Most of my friends are single, but I do have a handful of married friends and it seems that the “not not trying” is the second phase of married life—at least from what I gather. If you ask a newly married couple if they’re going to have kids, usually you’ll get, “Not yet. We want to enjoy each other first . . . travel . . . etc.” Then comes phase two: They’ve done enough of the enjoying just each other—or maybe even stopped enjoying each other entirely—and they may be ready to have kids. Yet they won’t say that. They won’t say they’re “trying.” And maybe it’s because they don’t want the pressure of people asking them how it’s going, and that’s understandable, but isn’t “not not trying” the same as “trying”? Why the coded double negative? When Todd asked me that morning what I was doing later in the afternoon, I didn’t say, “I’m not not having lunch with Cat in SoHo . . . so perhaps you’d like to join us?”

  Anyway, Cat was pregnant and that was fantastic news. I adored Cat and was genuinely thrilled for her happiness. We talked about her amazing apartment and the amazing new neighbors she and Billy had befriended and how they had an amazing two-month-old baby boy, who was destined to be best friends with her baby.

  When Todd showed up, Cat apologized for gushing about her “amazing” life and turned the tables on me, asking about Dirk. “And . . . ?” she said with a hopeful grin. “How’s life in Dirk land?”

  “Oh . . . you know . . .” I said, meaning “sucky,” but I didn’t want to complain. I always felt guilty telling Cat about my personal problems because she listened to people’s issues for a living. Why should I make her suffer through it on her lunch break? She was intuitive enough to know that things weren’t good and hadn’t been good for a long while. By contrast, my life was looking like a shit sandwich compared to hers. Overworked and underpaid? Check. Slimy landlord in a barely heated crummy apartment? Check. Up to my diamond-studless earlobes in debt? Check (certainly no cash). Oblivious boyfriend I outgrew six months ago but don’t have the balls to do anything about? Check, check, check.

  Cat started asking pointed questions about Dirk. Specifically, about the romantic dinner that she knew I was cooking for him and how it went. I played it down, but even so it didn’t sound good. Todd said nothing. But he shook his head in disgust.

  “Why do you put up with it?” she asked.

  “I didn’t want to make a scene in front of his friends.”

  “Who cares if his friends were there? Who are they? You’re allowed to stand up for yourself, Jordan.” I always knew she meant business when she used my name. If ever she was taking me to task on something, she always used my name. And not “J” or “Jordy,” like she’d call me any other day. Jordan. The equivalent of your parents calling you by your first and middle name when you’re in trouble. Or all three names if you’re really in trouble.

  “I know I’m allowed to stand up for myself,” I said.

  “Then why don’t you?” she said. “You can’t let people walk all over you.”

  “You’re right,” I said, tongue firmly planted in cheek. “Next thing you know I’ll be letting people drag me into their psych sessions.” I paused for effect. “Oh, wait! That’s already happening. You’re right. I am in trouble.”

  I looked to Todd, hoping he’d back me up, but he took her side. “Not to mention that you deserve so much better than that meathead. There. Once. I’m allowed to say it once in every conversation, right?” He didn’t wait for my answer. He just raised his eyebrows and pointed at Cat. “But Cat’s right. And she does this for a living. What is it with you not standing up for yourself?”

  “Yeah. Relationship advice from the guy who hasn’t had a girlfriend for more than a week since . . . ever?”

  “Not lately,” Cat said, curious. “What’s up with that? Dry spell?”

  “At the moment, I’m over the promiscuity thing,” Todd announced. “I’m too old for that shit.”

  “So you’re cruising the Lower East Side for Miss Right?” I asked.

  “She’s not there,” he said, and stood up to go to the bathroom.

  “No,” I said to Cat. “And he knows this because he’s worked his way through the entire female population of Lower Manhattan, and he needs to find new pastures to plow.”

  “Someplace new to drill for the next gusher,” Cat added.

  “I was going for subtlety,” I said, pushing away my tomato soup.

  * * * * *

  When I got out of the elevator on my floor, I could already hear Sneevil Knievel singing,
so it was not a big surprise to find another note taped to my door from my landlord. It said, “Please advice [sic]: It has come to my attention that there is a loud bird in your apartment. Pets require approval and we have no record of a preapproved bird in your apartment. We have already receive [sic] several complaints. Please silence the bird or we will require [sic] to take further action.”

  If it wasn’t bad enough to get the scolding note on my door, the state of my apartment when I walked in was enough to send me over the edge. Sneevil had somehow managed to throw every morsel of food out of his cage and onto the floor, my desk, wedging seeds in between keys on my computer keyboard and somehow across the room and onto my unmade bed. My landlord was right—it was enough to make me sic.

  8.

  god is dead

  Monday morning, I rode into work. Surprisingly, nobody cut me off on my entire trip. I decided that, if for no other reason, it was going to be a good day.

  About three blocks from the office I heard someone scream my name.

  I turned to look but couldn’t see where it was coming from. I pedaled on, thinking maybe I was hearing things, but then a taxi coasted past me and a head poked out.

  “Where’s your helmet?!” It was Stu Elliot, one of my illustrious colleagues at Splash, who was almost at Lydia’s level but who lacked the killer instinct (and trail of dead bodies) that would help him actually get there. I liked him. Working on his gigs was always less stressful than working with Lydia. I’d like to say it was because he valued my work that he cared enough to yell about my helmet, but this wasn’t the first time someone had yelled something of this ilk from a passing car. People just love to be drive-by surrogate mothers.

  I’m not one of those people who refuses to wear a helmet. I almost always wear it. Just sometimes if I’m rushing (or have a really important meeting and don’t want helmet head) I forget (or forget on purpose). And really, I never shout at colleagues who are taking one of their infernal cigarette breaks that they forgot their nicotine patch, so why can’t we just agree to all leave each other’s self-destructive habits alone?